


Pictures of a Port Town

by CallyCally



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Historical, Composer Nanase Haruka, Fluff, Haru is also a pianist, Makoto is a nervous bby, Singer Tachibana Makoto, Sort Of, and Haru is very much in love with him, it's 1950s London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallyCally/pseuds/CallyCally
Summary: Even after years of performing, Makoto tends to suffer from bouts of nerves before every recital. He had done so well in the first half, Haruka is already proud of him. But the music that they are to play next is so much more important. It is theirs… and that somehow makes the night feel incredibly personal yet terrifying, knowing that it is probably one of the biggest opportunities for their careers so far.Written as a gift for the Tachibana Makoto birthday exchange 2019!
Relationships: Nanase Haruka/Tachibana Makoto
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28
Collections: Tachibana Makoto Birthday Exchange 2019





	Pictures of a Port Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is my gift for @cruria who asked for makoharu fluff in a historical au setting 
> 
> It is...by far one of the most self-indulgent things I have ever written, but I did my best with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
> 
> Also a massive thanks to @yuurismocha, my beautiful beta reader who helped me immensely and gave me tons of encouragement <3

﹛WILTON’S MUSIC HALL. LONDON. 1952﹜

﹛INTERVAL﹜

The crowd’s growing murmurs fill Haruka’s ears, turning into a dull hum as he takes another peek between the thick red curtains. From his angle, he can just about make out the colourful heads of his friends: Rin, Sousuke, Kisumi, Asahi, Ikuya, Nagisa, Hiyori…looking like a damned rainbow in the middle of the crowd. His heart swells with affection, tinged as it is with a fond exasperation at their eccentric appearance that is certainly drawing some odd looks.

The ways they continue to wholeheartedly support him and Makoto means so much more to him than the presence of any of the music critics or scouts that are also retaking their seats. His eyes linger momentarily on the faces of Ryuji Azuma and Mikhail Makarovich among them, and he scoffs internally. He can’t wait to hear the nonsense they are going to write about him in their journals later. Whatever they write, he’ll make sure Makoto doesn’t read it.

Speaking of, Haruka should probably go and look for him.

Even after years of performing, Makoto tends to suffer from bouts of nerves before every recital. He had done _so_ well in the first half, Haruka is already proud of him. But the music that they are to play next is so much more important. It is _theirs…_ and that somehow makes the night feel incredibly personal yet terrifying, knowing that it is probably one of the biggest opportunities for their careers so far. Azuma and Makarovich's faces flash briefly in his mind once more.

His heart twists in his chest knowing Makoto is probably working himself up into quite a state. He should really go find him and-

“-se-san! Nanase-san?”

The stage manager -Haruka thinks Nitori is his name- nervously pulls him to the side, away from the curtains.

“Are you and Tachibana-san ready to go soon? You have twelve minutes before the interval is over,” he wrings his hands under Haruka’s blank stare, softening when he sees Haruka’s small but grateful smile. It is somewhat a relief to be speaking Japanese. 

Aside from Makoto and their friends, he’s forced to use English everyday, both in his music and in his everyday speech. After the war, they had suffered through too many scornful glances and cruel imitations of their accent, and so began their journey to assimilation. Even if they knew they would never blend in here, they still studied the bizarre language for painstaking hours, learned to prolong their vowels and forgo their “r”s. It wasn’t easy for him or Makoto to get to the level they are now, but with each others support and Rin’s incessant drilling, they made it in the end (even if their pronunciation remains “terrible” according to maroon-haired friend).

Haruka pats Nitori on the shoulder and the boy visibly relaxes.

“I’ll go and get him. Thanks Nitori,” he turns and makes towards the dressing room, where Makoto is probably finished warming up and most likely freaking out instead.

He doesn’t bother knocking.

“Makoto, I’m coming in” he shuts the door behind him and turns to find his suspicions from earlier confirmed. The brunette looks a _fright_. 

“Makoto…” Haruka can’t help but sigh.

He’s very clearly caught his boyfriend mid-frantic pace, with the sheet music clutched in his sweaty, trembling fingers and a deep red flush blooming across the bridge of his nose and tinting his ears. He has also clearly been fiddling with his tie, and Haruka makes a face at its crookedness. 

Watery verdant eyes meet calm, steady blue and the smile Makoto attempts ends up looking more like a pained grimace.

“Ah Haru…i-is it time already?” He rolls up his jacket sleeve, laughing nervously when he remembers he forgot his wristwatch in their flat. Haru wrinkles his nose at the sound of the sheet music being crumpled tighter in Makoto’s large, sweaty hands. 

Gently, he reaches across and disentangles his iron grip on the paper, placing it on the stand beside him, and replaces it with his hand, interlacing their fingers. Makoto visibly wilts as though he is a puppet whose strings have been cut, but clutches Haru’s fingers back tightly.

“Makoto,” the brunette looks up, anticipating the worst.

“You’re doing wonderfully. You know this music like the back of your hand. What’s this all about?”

Makoto chews his bottom lip, and Haru fights back the urge to soothe his thumb over it before he breaks the skin, he’s never been able to quell his boyfriend’s bad habit.

“Haru. This is _your_ piece…”

“Ours,” Haruka frowns.

“You know what I mean. It's a big night for my career sure, but you’re the _composer,_ not to mention a prodigy,” His green eyes cloud with pride momentarily before being taken over by panic once again. 

_“_ And if it’s a big night for me, it's even more so for you…Don’t think I didn’t see Professor Sasabe out there, and all of those critics from the Board of Music Academics-”

“Mako-”

“and I just can’t mess this up for you Haru, I _really_ can't. You’ve worked so incredibly hard on these songs…even when everyone else in our classes mocked us or said your music would never see the light of day…who told me I never had a chance to even make it here…I don’t think I could handle that happening tonight Haru, I really don’t and-”

“Makoto!”

He grabs Makoto’s cheeks before cupping them softly, successfully putting a stop to his frenzied rambling. 

Haruka’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. Makoto, his Makoto. Always, _always_ worrying to death about everyone else but himself, and no one more than Haruka. Overcome with affection and exasperation, Haru rubs his thumbs across the delicate skin under droopy green eyes

“You know I’ve never cared about what anyone else thinks. All those people out there...”

He feels more than hears Makoto swallow.

“None of them matter, for they were never the ones at I have written music for. I write freely…for myself ...and for you. For your voice only”. Haruka keeps his tone gentle and soft, the way he usually talks to his love when they are like this, alone with Makoto’s fears and the monsters that make him doubt himself so.

“Let’s both of us just…perform how we always do when we are together. Pretend no one else is there and just feel the music…If we do that, and if you are by my side, then I know everything will be alright.” he punctuates his words with a gentle kiss to his boyfriend’s warm cheek.

He hears Makoto giggle and knows that his face is rosy with a new blush, before strong arms wrap around him in a hug. Sighing contentedly, Haruka tucks his face into the crook of his broad shoulder and returns the embrace fiercely.

“Thank you, Haru.” Makoto’s smile turns into something sweeter and more intimate: one that he reserves just for moments like this just between them.

“And you’re right. They shouldn’t matter. After all, the only person I sing for has always been you. I just hope I can make you proud tonight.” Haruka’s heart flutters.

“Idiot. I’m…I’m always proud of you.” He’s not usually so forward with his feelings, and the weight of his words catches up to him at last. Huffing, he turns his face, cheeks heating to rival his lover’s.

Makoto outright laughs, sounding like a great burden has been lifted off his shoulders, and smooths a gentle hand across Haruka’s jaw, pulling him into a sweet touch of lips. He can’t help but hum in contentment, eyes sliding shut and arms tightening their hold around Makoto’s waist, tilting his head just _so_ to deepen their kiss-

**_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK_ **

Makoto yelps into Haruka’s mouth, tearing away from him with a hand clutching at his chest in fright. Haruka snorts, his boyfriend is still jumpy as ever. 

“Come in” Makoto calls out, albeit a little breathlessly.

It’s Nitori again, looking considerably more frazzled than before. Backstage management must be more stressful than it looks, Haruka muses.

“Oh, hello Nitori-kun. Is it time already?”

“Yes, you’re on in five minutes!” And with that he disappears again, letting the door slam shut behind him.

A beat passes before they wordlessly meet each other's eyes.

_Everything is going to be fine, Makoto. Trust me. Trust us._

  
  


_Of course I trust you, Haru-chan._

  
  


Their hands meet and intense stares melt into smiles as they exchange a final kiss before stepping out, fingers tightly interlocked. Haru feels a surge of warmth and security from the point where their hands meet and he knows that they will be just fine. He wasn’t just saying it to merely comfort his best friend. 

They keep their hands intertwined all the way up until they reach the thick velvety curtains for the second time that evening, where their presenter for the night and friend, Rei, awaits with an enthusiastic smile. Ever the proper gentleman, he grasps both of their hands in firm but warm handshakes.

“Best of luck to both of you Nanase-san, Tachibana-san”

Makoto chuckles “Rei…there’s no need to be so formal.”

“Just Haru is fine…but thanks”

Rei looks ready to protest, but is interrupted by yet another one of Nitori’s flustered arrivals.

“Ryuugazaki-kun, everyone is seated and the doors are closed, you can go on ahead!”.

With a final nod towards them both, Rei disappears behind the curtains and soon enough, his precise and welcoming timbre wafts from where they stand behind the thick velvet.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pleasure and enthusiasm that I welcome you all back again for the second half of tonight’s recital: a debut of a Royal College of Music graduate and a Japanese prodigy. One who is steadily rising in the ranks as an established composer: Mr.Haruka Nanase”

Among the audience’s polite applause, Haru can make out Rin’s ridiculous whistling. He never quite seems to grasp (or care for) concert hall etiquette, but it brings a smile to his and Makoto’s faces nonetheless.

He feels a nudge on his shoulder just as he is about to step forward, and Haru turns just in time to receive a soft kiss on the cheek and to see the brunette watching him with utmost pride overflowing in his eyes. His cheeks burn and he can’t help but look away, overwhelmed as always by the intensity of those forest green eyes. Still, he leans into the touch before letting go of their clasped hands and stepping onto the stage.

He nods once towards the audience and carries out the obligatory handshake with Rei _-so many formalities involved in these sort of events-_ before taking his seat as quickly as possible at the sleek grand piano.

“Please also welcome back Mr.Nanase’s longtime favoured tenor, for whom this wonderful song cycle is dedicated: Mr.Makoto Tachibana.” He hears the fondness in Rei’s tone.

Haruka stares at the back of Makoto’s broad suit-clad shoulders as he watches him take to the stage and greet Rei. Despite their intimate moment in the dressing room, he still looks quite tense, and Haru tries to send him silent reassurances through his gaze alone.

“Now, for the first time, they will be performing Pictures of a Port Town, an original song cycle composed by Mr.Nanase, specially commissioned by Professor Goro Sasabe of the Royal Conservatoire.”

With a final sweeping gesture towards both musicians, he vanishes backstage, leaving Haruka and Makoto alone on the platform.

Haruka knows he must acknowledge their spectators now and introduce their repertoire, but suddenly finds his mouth too dry. How is he supposed to simply summarise the value of these songs? How could he possibly tell them what it means to him, in words?

He turns to the audience- _he really hates this part of performing, he wishes they could just get on with the music already_ \- pulling at the collar of his suit - _did it always feel this tight around his neck?_ \- opens his mouth and-

“Pictures of a Port Town is a cycle of four movements, each of them illustrating an array of images tied to our hometown of Iwatobi. I hope that through our performance you will be able to delve into our precious memories with us and set foot into our seaside town.” Makoto’s tone is nothing short of wistful.

And Haruka loves him. So much. Trust Makoto to sense the sources of his unease and smoothly take the reigns. When the applause starts once more, they don’t bow, having learned that those are only reserved for the end of a performance here. 

The brunette assumes his position in centre stage and Haruka hovers his thin fingers over the keys in wait as the last whispers of anticipatory shuffling echoes throughout the concert hall.

He meets Makoto’s eyes over the piano’s gleaming black surface.

_Remember._

_Just how we always do, with feeling._

_And for each other._

**_It’s meaningless without you._ **

  
  


They breathe in together-

  
  


And Makoto begins to sing.

…

  
  


His sweet melodic timbre interweaves seamlessly with the light tinkling of the piano keys and Haruka can’t help but shut his eyes. No matter how many times they rehearsed it together, he never tires of the way Makoto gives such life and warmth to his music. And he thinks that, funnily, this is another way that Makoto is giving voice to the thoughts Haru cannot speak aloud, just as he did mere moments ago, and as he has been doing, ever since they were little boys singing songs as they wandered along Iwatobi’s shores.

Even as children, words were never needed between them, adept as they always were at reading each other’s thoughts and feelings from little more than a flicker of expression. Music was and still is just another medium through which their connection blossoms. Haruka doesn’t think he is ever more at ease than when the two of them create music together.

_He remembers the first time he came to Makoto, breathless from running because he had finished it-_ ** _he had finally finished it_** _-_ _and Makoto had been so sweetly ecstatic to hear it. He had been there after all, on the nights where Haruka had nearly tore his hair out in frustration because no combination of notes or chords were the right ones, nothing worked to recreate the beautiful atmospheres floating around his head._

_Makoto had wept when he finally heard the cycle it in its entirety, sight-reading the melody and reading along the poetry (provided by another former Iwatobi resident and their very own close friend, Rin Matsuoka) both for pride and for a deep longing for those tranquil docks where their families still reside, two little wild twins too and a hoard of neighbourhood cats…._

_Even with tear track gleaming on his cheeks he hadn’t stopped once and sang it right through, ever the pillar of strength that Haruka knows him to be._

_Haruka himself had almost teared up then too, not only for the sudden bout of homesickness that seemed to wrack them both, but for finally hearing his music in the voice it was written for. He felt his vision being realised at last, like a deeply frustrating puzzle piece had finally been fitted into place._

_He recalls the way that Makoto had warbled his name afterwards, his tone trembling from the remnants of tears yet somehow still so full of adoration. Finding words lacking in the moment, Haruka had surged forwards and kissed Makoto right on the mouth for the very first time, tasting salt from the remnants of his tears._

_The brunette had frozen in surprise but the gentle way in which Makoto had cradled his face and kissed him just as strongly in return quelled any doubts Haruka had the reciprocation of his feelings. They had kissed in between breathless laughter… until they ran out of breath only to lean forwards again and again and again, tasting each others smiles-_

Haru almost falters over the piano keys as the memory floods him, and he can’t help the quiet huff of laughter that escapes, tender affection welling in his chest. This piece is irrevocably tied to him and Makoto both, together, not only because of its role played in their relationship, but for this moment that is unfolding right now.

Because Makoto is making him so, so proud. He looks up from the keys and finds himself meeting Makoto’s droopy verdant gaze at the same time. For an instant, the words Makoto sings are briefly shaped by his smile, the sound coming out sweeter and more lilting than is written, and Haru catches his signature head tilt, deciphering the question in his gaze:

_Am I doing alright?_

Haru answers with a gentle smile of his own ( _yes, of course you are)_ and sees a minute relaxation in the singer’s shoulders as he turns back to address to the audience again, with a barely perceptible rise in confidence and renewed vigour.

Risking a quick glance at the crowd in question, Haru’s gaze is first drawn to the stern faces of attending critics, noticing a few of them looking rather enraptured, while others write vigorously in their little notebooks. The rest of the occupied seats (musicians and ordinary public alike) listen intently, seemingly captured by Makoto’s stage presence and the melodious tones he coaxes from within. Haru understands them, because while he did write this music from his heart, he also did so with the intention of giving Makoto something for his voice to thrive.

The singer had been given a hard time both by the music teachers of their youth in Iwatobi and then all over again by their British conservatory professors, who suggested he pursue a career elsewhere ( _“music theory professor? Or vocal teacher perhaps? Best not to go into performing”_ ), much to Haruka’s fury. Naturally, Makoto had tried to pretend it didn’t bother him, always smiling even after reading particularly acidic reviews of his performances. 

Haruka never missed the strain in his cheeks, the slight downturn of his mouth, or the whiteness of his knuckles. His Makoto is nothing if not resilient, however, and used it to push himself harder and work himself to the bone in order to perfect his vocal technique. Haruka has always known its value, however, and he _knows_ he is not the only one who appreciates its beauty and uniqueness. Not if the enchanted expressions of the public are any example.

Makoto could tell a hundred stories and paint a thousand pictures from one musical phrase alone. It is exactly what Haru hears now, as Makoto moves from movement to movement through the song cycle:

In Makoto’s smooth _crescendos_ , he sees the rising of the tides in the evening, hears the salt water lapping against the rocks that surround the piers, threatening to make its way onto land but never quite doing so. In his _diminuendos_ he sees the sun setting behind the horizon, leaving rippling colours spread out all over the lulling ocean’s surface-like the paintings Haruka used to make before music had taken over his life. In Makoto’s soft and high, lilting _glissandi_ , he hears the cries of the gulls, sees them speckled across the sky, hovering over the beach in search of food just as the ships begin to leave port. The longing for such tranquillity never diminishes with every time Haruka plays this music. 

London is a horrifically bustling city that never sleeps, constantly bursting with a cacophony of sound: honking horns, spluttering engines, the screeching of the underground trains and the myriad of people that fill its stations, always too many for Haruka’s taste. London is a cluster of rundown buildings, some still left hollow and dilapidated from the war, smoke rising from factory chimneys and polluting the air they breathe. Sometimes he and Makoto will sit and look through the few photographs they have of their serene childhood and when they tire of that, they will sit and fantasize of a far-away future where they return again to placid beaches, clear night skies and most importantly, decent mackerel.

In the next movement, Haruka sees images of their childhood in Iwatobi. He hears the sound of Makoto’s rickety old bicycle that both of them would ride to and from their tiny school, blue eyes rolling in exasperation when Makoto would stop to feed every single stray cat along the way. He sees the blooming colours of his grandmother's garden, watering cans held in chubby little hands. The sweet smiling faces of Makoto’s family that they left behind to chase this chapter of their lives. The sakura trees that blossomed and littered their narrow streets with speckles of white and pink, dancing around them in great clouds whenever the wind blew and tangling in their hair. The Iwatobi of their early childhood stands out, pure and calm, yet untainted by the horrors that later wracked its foundations.

By the time the third movement is underway, Haru has to suppress a shudder as Makoto sings the storm. Crashing waves, a biting cold and swirling chaos from all sides, mercilessly dragging anyone or anything down into its depths. It recalls the very storm that almost took Makoto from him when they were teenagers, the memory of Makoto’s limp form lying on the sand of their beloved shores that still haunts his nightmares to this day. Haruka sometimes used to struggle to understand why that fated night rooted itself so deeply in his heart, more so than the devastating Tottori earthquake that destroyed their homes and rendered their town unrecognisable, all in the midst of a world war. He knows now that it was the first time that the possibility of losing Makoto brushed too close. The piece was rather cathartic to write, however, and it brings him immense comfort to see Makoto undoubtedly alive and on stage, embodying the very strength of the storm himself.

They had both long agreed that the fourth and final movement of the cycle was by far their favourite, not only because of its irrevocable tie to their first kiss, but because the rich, velvety tones flitting from Makoto’s lips are utterly sure, unwavering in their strength: a steadiness and serenity that forms the very foundations of their relationship. 

Haruka’s love permeates every note, while Makoto voices it with his own soothing timbre. It’s what Makoto has done all of their lives; when Haru either didn’t want to or simply couldn’t find words to express himself. Makoto would naturally understand form a glance alone and speak for him, complete with his signature head-tilt and smile. Conversely, Haruka could read Makoto like a book and was well-versed in his language, always using his knowledge to try and protect him from the never-ending obstacles life seemed to throw at them.

The final piece is a declaration of longing love to the sleepy seaside town that brought them together and gave them the sweetness of their childhood, disrupted as it later became by bloody wars and natural disasters that filled the once-lively piers with long lines of funeral processions and solemn white robes.

Despite the bittersweet tinge to their beloved little town, Haruka will always be grateful for Makoto’s unwavering presence being the one thing that remains unchanged in his life.

Haruka looks at him again and finds his heart pounding at the passion that has taken over his being, at the way his brow furrows with concentration and his eyes close, his large hand coming up to rest over his chest…Haruka has to resist the urge to do the very same.

They are connected in so many ways and so deeply that Haruka thinks he will never quite be able to capture it in music.

Makoto is sure making it seem possible though. As Haru’s fingers slow to a stop, letting the final notes ring out, Makoto’s voice is the only sound left, echoing his final notes through the hall. A dramatic _decrescendo_ in volume and Makoto slows to a quiet stop, turning to meet Haruka’s eyes once more, his face red and shining with exertion, chest heaving, and a slow beaming smile spreading across his cheeks.

Haruka thinks Makoto has never looked more beautiful.

A clap startles them both out of their thoughts and they remember that they are not the only two people in the room, despite what it feels like. 

Gradually, the room is filled with thunderous applause. Haru can just about make out Rin crying into the crook of his elbow (while Sousuke dutifully rubs his back in fond exasperation) and hears the creak of chairs before he sees all of their dear friends leading a standing ovation. Rei and Nitori stand offstage, eyes glistening. Haruka notes that he has even managed to do the impossible and even make Azuma smile.

Haru feels something deep settle into his chest as he crosses to join Makoto at the centre of the stage, feeling Makoto’s hand naturally make its way in his. He finds he cannot help the wide smile spreading across his own face, nor does he want to.

In the chaos of hands echoing around them, Makoto leans in to speak gently to him.

“You did it, Haru-chan, Just listen to them.”

His emerald eyes shine with so much adoration, Haruka feels more overwhelmed than standing in front of any crowd could ever make him feel, and for a moment he fears his heart getting too full. He simply squeezes Makoto’s hand tighter and doesn’t bother suppressing his smile.

“Drop the chan”, he all but whispers, but Haruka knows his best friend will understand what he truly means.

_They love you too, though not as much as I do_

He hears Makoto’s soft laughter and aches to kiss him, audience be damned. But he knows Makoto would most likely die of embarrassment. There’s a time and a place, Haruka supposes. He will just have to settle for kissing him breathless the moment the curtains close. How else will he show Makoto how proud he is of him?

Of course Haruka is proud of his own achievements also, being able to bring even a sliver of _home_ to an entire audience and having it so well received, hopefully taking the next big step to make his name known and share his music with the world. 

But if he’s honest with himself, the shining happiness and satisfaction emanating from the smile on his dear Makoto’s face is worth more to him than any of that.

Because standing by Makoto’s side, his hand warm in his own, Haru feels closer to home than ever.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The premise of the fic is pretty much based off the life of one of my favourite composers, Benjamin Britten, who also tended to write works for his own lifelong partner Peter Pears! Those two are such couple goalzz that I thought their story would also work well for makoharu, who are actual soulmates (*^‿^*)
> 
> That said, don't look toooo deeply into what historical details I put in here...it's all just a bit of fun!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!!


End file.
